


Duo of Dreams

by WanderinTsundoku



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, emotional angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 23:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderinTsundoku/pseuds/WanderinTsundoku
Summary: Noodle Man ain’t feeling too well. Good thing he has Radish Soup Friend to help out.





	Duo of Dreams

Spaghetti lays his head against the pillow on the couch, rubbing his temple with an ungloved hand. His coat and cape are long forgotten on a nearby chair. He relaxes his back into the sofa cushions. A crack pops in his spine as he rotates his shoulders upwards and back down. His long legs press against the armrest of the furniture. Groaning at the uncomfortable sensation, he curls his legs up to fit on the couch better. Facing outwards towards the room, he lays flush against the sofa pillows. Tucking an arm under the cushion supporting his head, he closes his eyes.

The room is dimly lit by filtered moonlight through the window blinds. He's told Borscht that the blinds looked tacky against the velvet curtains, but she made it clear that she values practicality over style. A flickering lamp sits just feet away on a nearby end table, it’s glow similar to that of a lone firefly. Low sitting armchairs, matching in hue and pattern, rest on either side of a long coffee table. Abandoned books and papers lay on its surface, wishes and plans yet to processed by the Food Soul. The umber walls wrapping the space glows brighter as Borscht enters and flips the main light switch on. 

“I thought someone as prideful as you would be in your bed?” Borscht muses as she enters the room. Her red dress flows with her across the room, a long braid resting just over her shoulder. Separated from the living space above, the pub downstairs was quiet as she closed up for the night. As the last customer left she gathered Spaghetti a couple self-medications for his fatigue. She holds a glass of warm milk in one hand and offers him the pill she held in the other hand.

“Don’t start, I’m not in the mood to bicker,” he takes the medicine between his fingers and pops it down. He sighs when Borscht sits down in the free space just below his chest, her weight sinking the cushion.

She combs her fingers through his scarlet locks before passing him the glass, “Well here, this always calms you.” She looks down to observe the bags that stained under his eyes. His lavender irises expose themselves, zoning out into a distanced space beyond. 

“I can’t,” he groans as the room blurred like static, “I can’t tell up from down at the very least. Borscht just leave me be.” Resting his eyes again he turns his head into the pillow. His breath slows while Borscht continues to massage his fluffed wavy strands. She sets the glass down on the coffee table before hooking an arm under his shoulder.

“Well come on, I’ll help you to bed since you couldn’t get there by yourself. Curling up on the couch is only going to worsen your back.” She tugs him to move up, Spaghetti reluctantly following her motions. She huffs as she wraps both of her arms under his own. Leaning back she pulls him upwards. 

“Borscht,” he glares at her, “I thought I told you to leave me alone, or do you only speak a commoner’s tongue?” A sharp pain stings throughout his forehead, a feeling similar to thin needles pricking through skin. The blood pulsates against the soft tissue of his brain, blurring his vision further. 

“I’m going to cut out yours if you don’t shut up and let me help you,” she bends down to get a better hold of him. Placing one of his arms around her shoulder she sits him up. She angles him up to his feet, gripping the furthest side of his waist as she takes on his weight. Hunching over, she begins to walk them forward.

“I am this close…” he left the threat empty as he stumbles along on her. Borscht only rolls her eyes at his remark as she carries him down the hallway. The short distance felt like hours for the redhead, time pausing with every step. Before he can register the space in front of him, Borscht lays him on the bed. He flinches as his head suddenly hits the pillow.

Just across from Borscht’s equality sized room, Spaghetti’s sits uninhabited for most of the week. The maroon walls stand dark, with a tall wardrobe overlooking most of the room. Opposite from it is his bed, neatly made just hours before. A nightstand sits besides the bed housing scattered coins and jewels. Above it is a window with its curtains closed as a thin sliver of moon peeks through onto the floorboards. Just on the other side of the glass is the resting city of Nervas, although faint echoes of its drunken nightlife could still be heard.

“Come on, get your skinny legs up there too. You can't just dangle off the edge,” Borscht heaves his ankles up on the sheets. Covering him with a nearby blanket, she sits on the edge of the mattress and fluffs the soft pillow under his neck. She removes his necktie and sets it on the nightstand. Unclipping his tassel like earring she places it besides the tie.

Spaghetti clenches his eyelids together as another round of needles stabbed his mind, “You… Made it worse.” He shuffles a bit on the bed to get as comfortable as he could, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Hey, don't blame me for your migraines. They're in your head, caused by your stress. Maybe if you took better care of yourself you wouldn't be whining,” She places her hands on the sides of his head and rubs gentle circles. Slowly kneading his temples she watches as Spaghetti’s eyebrows lower. She frowns as he exhales a painful groan, and pulls her hands away.

“Borscht don't… talk. Quiet yourself,” Spaghetti tries to turn away from her only to be held in place. She tucks the blanket around him before shifting to the top of the bed, leaning on the headboard. She rests her cheek against her propped up palm, weaving a free hand through his hair again.

She sighs, “Stop trying to insult me, it’s only going to work you up and pain that egotistical, prideful, selfish head of yours.” Using her free hand she removes her hat and tosses it behind her, not caring where it lands. She closes her eyes as she strums his wavy locks. Her own drowsiness from the drawn-out day beginning to settle in.

Spaghetti places a hand on hers and holds it tenderly, “And who's trying to be the selfish one? You're only helping me to use it against me later. ‘Spaghetti I need a new this, Spaghetti don't do that, Spaghetti go do that because I helped you that other day.’ Don't expect that of me.” He shivers, not from the cold but from another force within his body. It was not fear nor anxiety, but the unknown stressor that plagued him. Is it anger? Distrust? He can not focus on the thought that made him visibly shake. He opens his eyes to glance up at her. 

“Spaghetti, stop it. I see us as equals and I know not to abuse someone when they’re…” Borscht looks down into his eyes, her hand turning to hold his. She attempts to look for the right word that wouldn’t offend the other, however, her search morphs into a shrug.

“What? When they’re what Borscht? What are you suggesting?” he chuckles, his laugh deep with irritation, “besides, you think you could ever win against me? Use me? Oh my dear, how you are mistaken. I’m not a violent drunk from your bar, whom you can just toss out.” He removes her hand from his hair, pushing it away. Holding the pillow close he snuggles into it as he narrows his eyes at her. 

“Spaghetti. Please. Your threats don’t mean anything to me, I see past them you know. Don’t hide behind a mask when your head is ringing, you’ll let it crack. Just… you shut up. I’m not expecting any kind of favors or debt from this alright? Consider it… a donation. Yes! A donation to the ‘Spaghetti is a dummy who can’t take a break for five minutes and wonders why he gets headaches foundation’, sound good?” Borscht scoots down to lay beside him, resting her head on his chest.

Spaghetti huffs at the motion before relaxing his expression. Raising an eyebrow he tilts his head down, “What do you think you’re doing?” He pauses as Borscht pulls his arm down to wrap around her back. Although confused at the other’s determination, he finds her embrace calming. Did he worry about her getting too attached? His logic, however fuzzy it may be at the moment, tells him to push her away. But his intuition tells him to hug her back.

“Making sure you don’t get up too soon. You always rush to your feet the moment you think you’ve pushed it back and suffer later for it. And then I have to put up with your whining and sloping. Do you know how much milk we’ve gone through this month? You’re not a growing boy, I mean, you act like you need coddling so I guess maybe you are.” 

“I don’t… Borscht. Really? At least it’s not alcohol,” he sighs, “I don’t have to energy to deal with your judgemental fallacies. You wouldn’t even understand it.” 

“That sounds like something a boy would say when he’s going through a phase,” Borscht laughs softly. She closes her eyes once again, close to drifting off.

“He did actually,” Spaghetti whispers absentmindedly. His migraine continues to plague his mind. The conflict of whether to console in Borscht or not becomes a new cause for his headache. Her words were that of a caring friend, but did he deserve one?

He remembers back to the nights when his Master Attendant had nightmares and sought him out for comfort. He climbed into his bed, crying as Spaghetti sung him back to sleep. The mornings when his Master smiled while eating his hearty breakfast. The afternoons when they would hunt down Fallen Angels, how proud his Master had been with his efforts. In the evenings, they would watch the sunset with clouds of cotton candy poofing above the horizon.

Spaghetti used to get joy from reminiscing those memories. However, it was because of one evening that the joy morphed into sorrow and regret. That evening, the true monsters revealed themselves as his Master drunk the poisoned wine. The familiar sobbing from his Master’s youth choked up with his blood. He held him close as the contract slowly unfurled and wilted, desperately clinging onto the dying light in his arms. His only source of warmth, his only joy in the world.

Borscht looks up at him, “Huh? Who did?” She always pondered about his small remarks of the past. He often blurted something out or alluded to it, yet never went on to explain what he meant. She would ask him to clarify what he meant, only to get a vague answer in return.

“...Don’t worry about it. The past is the past. As I have said before I don’t have the energy,” he pulls her close and rests his chin on her head.

“Yeah, another time?” she hugs him back.

“Perhaps,” he plays with her braid, running his fingers along the thick knots.

Borscht yawns, “You don’t mind if I sleep here right?” She doesn't trust Spaghetti alone. She knows the moment she leaves, he would try to get up and work.

“I thought this was a friendship?” he questions, pondering if the other wanted to get closer than he was comfortable with. He doubts it, but one can never be too cautious. Maybe that’s why she was being so kind to him? 

Borscht huffs, “Friends can cuddle platonically, stop making this more than it is.” She gives him a pinch on the shoulder before patting the spot. She mentally shakes her head at how skittish he acted around affection. She wishes that he had more friends so that she didn’t have to teach him about friendship by herself. But someone has to be the first or at least try to be as good as the first. 

Spaghetti pats her back, “I’m not, just checking. But wow, I didn’t know I’m not allowed to ask if my friend is trying to advance on me when she’s laying on top of me?”

His sarcastic tone causes Borscht chuckle, “Please, you’re not even my type.”

“Oh?,” closes his eyes, “what’s your type? That drunk with the hawk that drinks at the pub occasionally?” Spaghetti starts to follow Borscht into slumber as the ringing in his mind exhausts his last conscious nerves. 

Borscht sighs, “We’ll gossip like high school girls later. Sleep... Now.” Her mind descending into drowsiness, and easing into her subconscious. Her breath slowing into the pace similar to how dandelion seeds flow with a light breeze.

Spaghetti yawns, “My favorite kind of gossip. Alright.” His mind finally rests, surrounded by an easing warmth. The clouds outside spiral like fresh snow spun by the moon, their softness filters inside the room eroding away any pains or worries as the duo dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> This was cute to write, and I’m going to write more with these friendos.  
> Beta'd by DapperSheep


End file.
